


House Call

by Sixthlight



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Gen, Implied Peter Grant/Thomas Nightingale, Incipient polyamory, M/M, Minor Hanging Tree Spoilers, Post-The Hanging Tree, Pre-Slash, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 06:34:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8654518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sixthlight/pseuds/Sixthlight
Summary: Peter has the flu, Beverley has a project due, and Nightingale has chicken soup.





	

Beverley almost didn’t hear the knock on the door because she was in the kitchen stacking dishes into the dishwasher; normally she would have worried about it tomorrow, but Peter was just feverish enough to think that tidying was a good idea if he wandered in here, and it really wasn’t. She tried to remember who it might be as she went to answer it. Not one of her sisters, and Mama Grant had already been and gone. Sahra, maybe?

She opened the door to find the Nightingale standing there, wrapped against the drizzle in a pale-colored trenchcoat and carrying something in a Tesco bag. She blinked, startled. He’d come by to drop off or pick up Peter often enough, but never like this.

"I, er," he said. "Molly sent me round with soup."

Beverley wasn’t sure she believed that, exactly, because Molly would have emailed if that was what had happened, but she couldn’t really leave him standing on the doorstep.

“I’m sure,” she said. “Want to come in and deliver it yourself?”

“If you don’t mind,” he said, and ducked in so quickly Beverley was absolutely certain Molly hadn’t had anything to do with his errand, except in making the soup that was, presumably, in the Tesco bag.

She showed him through to what was becoming a living room, now Peter had started finding her more and more bits of furniture – from his cousins, or people at work, though he’d flat-out bought the sofa as a birthday present, saying it was for him as well so she couldn’t say it was too big a thing. He’d been dozing on it when Beverley had last checked on him, but when they entered he was fully asleep, snuggled into the biggest duvet Beverley owned. There was a stack of books beside him; Beverley didn’t think he’d managed to absorb anything from any of them, but having them there seemed to make him feel like he wasn’t wasting his time having the ‘flu.

“Is he still running a fever?” Nightingale asked quietly. The house wasn’t cold, or at least this room wasn’t, but Peter had every inch of him under the duvet he could manage.

“Yeah,” Beverley said. “Don’t worry, he’s taken Panadol and all of that. He’s just a bit miserable right now.”

“Poor chap,” said Nightingale. “Molly sent chicken broth. I suppose it should go in the refrigerator, if he’s asleep.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Beverley said quickly, reaching for the bag. There was no way she was giving the Nightingale the opportunity to judge the contents of her fridge. She wasn’t big on cooking most of the time anyway, and it had been one of those weeks. Peter had stages for her fridge. The last time he’d taken a look in it he’d muttered something about biohazard level two. (Mama Grant hadn’t said anything, exactly, but she’d clearly had Opinions. Beverley was going to have to get Maksim to do something about it when Peter wasn’t looking.)

Some impulse – perhaps brought on by the way water was beading in the Nightingale’s hair – prompted her to keep talking. “I was just – do you want a cup of tea, or something?”

Nightingale opened his mouth, and glanced down at Peter. Beverley could hear the phrase “That’s very kind of you, but I must be going” forming in his head. She took a breath to respond, and then he said “That’s very kind of you. Yes, thank you, I’d love one.”

She switched gears mid-stream. “Milk, sugar?”

When she came back five minutes later with two mugs – she didn’t own a teapot and Nightingale could take it from a teabag in a mug or lump it – he was still standing, having, she realised, not been invited to sit. He was still looking down at Peter with an expression she recognised, but not by sight; by feel.

“Take your coat off,” she said. “It’ll make Peter grumpy if he wakes up and you’re dripping on the furniture. Honestly – it’s not even his furniture, I don’t know why he gets so upset about it.”

Nightingale looked over at her and smiled at that, a wry grin she wouldn’t have suspected him of possessing. “I can quite imagine.”

She let him have the armchair and made room for herself next to Peter’s feet, re-covering them carefully with the duvet. Nightingale cradled his mug of tea in his hands, trenchcoat now hung on the hooks in the hallway she barely ever used, and glanced from it to her.

“Obligations, none, whatever,” she said. “Sorry; it’s too late in the day for anything better.”

Nightingale looked at her for a long moment, not warily but with a sort of bemused resignation, and then drank all the same. “I suppose you’ve been keeping an eye on him the last couple of days.”

“On and off,” she said. “I’ve got a big project on wetland restoration due Monday. Peter says it’s cheating because I did somewhere in the Thames Valley but it’s not like I can cite any of Baba Thames’ boys as sources, is it? Still got to go to the literature.”

“You’re done with your studies this year, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. Still tossing up whether I want to go for a Masters’. Or a PhD, down the line. Mum would like it. Not as good as being a _real_ doctor, but Nicky’s in the firing line for that now, not me.”

“It’s not a lesser achievement,” said Nightingale. “I never would have stuck a postgraduate degree. In my day you didn’t have to attend university as a requirement for practically any career past manual labour, thank God.”

“Wizards and books, though,” Beverley said. “Aren’t all of you about that one way or another?”

He gave her that wry grin again. “A lot of us. Peter, certainly. Never me by choice, so much. Magic isn’t books.” He looked at Peter’s pile. “You know, however, I find myself thinking I might need all of those at the Folly, right now. Out of the way of…trouble.”

“Just make sure you keep them together somewhere,” Beverley said.

“Naturally.” His expression sobered. “Would it be easier if I took him back to the Folly, tonight?”

“He’s fine here,” Beverley said immediately, trying not to let her shoulders stiffen. “This is his home, too.” She’d never said it quite like that before, but it was true all the same.

“I didn't mean,” said Nightingale, and paused. “Let me start again. I very much appreciate everything you’ve been doing for Peter this week. I know he’s your – your partner, and it’s not out of the line of duty, as it were. But I know you have your studies, and everything else, as well, and if he were at the Folly it would be easy for me to keep an eye on him, and Molly if I were called away on a case – you wouldn’t need to worry. I offer in case it’s help you could use. I don’t at all mean he shouldn’t be here, since quite clearly he wants to be, and you want him to be.”

“Oh,” Beverley said, absorbing this speech. “Yeah, okay, I…you know? If he’s still out of it tomorrow, that might not be a bad idea. Based on what Sahra said it about her week with it, it sounds like he should be getting better, though. And…” She hesitated, but it hadn’t been that sort of confidence. “He was a bit worried about you getting it, said you’re not supposed to get respiratory infections if you can avoid them, after you got shot. He had a nasty cough for a bit there.”

It was Nightingale’s turn to be surprised. “Oh. I didn’t - oh.”

“What, he’s not allowed to worry about you?” Beverley said, trying to make it light.

“It’s not really in his job description,” said Nightingale, equally lightly. “More the other way around.”

“You’re not here because of a job description,” she said, gesturing at his cup of tea. He could have looked in and left, he could have called, he could have trusted that Peter would be back when he was well. Instead he was sitting in her armchair and drinking her tea and looking at Peter the same way she was, and Beverley was surprised at her own feeling of – Nightingale would probably call it ‘camaraderie’ or some old-fashioned word like that. Of having something in common, of wanting the same thing.

“No, I’m not,” Nightingale admitted, even more quietly than they were already talking, and Beverley hadn’t expected that. “Will you tell him I came by?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“A fair point.” He stood up, putting the mug to one side. “I really do have to be going now.” He bent to scoop up Peter’s errant book pile. Beverley got up to see him out, because it was the Nightingale, after all. As he straightened he reached down and adjusted the duvet around Peter’s shoulders with his free hand. He didn’t let his hand touch Peter’s face or neck at all.

“Seriously,” Peter slurred, his eyes cracking open. “You were gonna leave without saying goodbye?”

Beverley wondered how much of that conversation Peter had been awake for. “Oh, look who’s decided to join us.”

“Just took a little nap,” Peter said. “’S good for the healing process.”

“Molly sent me with soup,” Nightingale said, letting his hand rest on Peter’s shoulder now, atop the duvet. “It’s in the refrigerator.”

“That’s probably not _safe_ ,” said Peter.

“It’s fine,” said Beverley, firmly. Luckily Peter was clearly still out of it enough that Nightingale didn’t seem to find this alarming.

“I’m sure it’ll be quite alright there,” he said. “If you’re still this under the weather tomorrow, I’m going to come round and bring you back to the Folly, understand?”

“So Bev can do her project without me in the way,” Peter said. “Mmm, ‘kay. Good idea. Wait – no. _Bad_ idea. You might get sick.”

“I’ve been ill before and doubtless I will be again, Peter,” said Nightingale. “You can’t fend off that single-handed. Go back to sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“I can’t believe you came all the way here just for soup,” said Peter, his eyes already closed again. “But I’m glad you came.” He trailed off on the last sentence.

Beverley waited, but Nightingale didn’t say anything, even if he didn’t take his hand away until Peter’s breathing had evened out.

“Didn’t expect you to be a coward,” said Beverley once they were in the hallway and he was putting on his coat.

“Really?” said Nightingale. “We all have things that make cowards of us, one way or another.” He paused. “He’s my apprentice.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Beverley said. “Ever heard of something called the middle ground?”

“Tricky to maintain.” He looked at her, long and thoughtfully. “Thank you. For the tea, and…”

“Anytime,” Beverley said. “I mean that.”

“I do wish,” said Nightingale, “I could return that invitation. Sometimes I’m not sure what we were protecting against.”

“I can think of one or two things, and people,” said Beverley, darkly. “And I know you can too. It’s okay. I don’t hold you _totally_ responsible for your stupid wards.”

His mouth twitched like he wanted to correct her, but he just shook his head, and smiled. “Well, I’m glad. Have a good evening, Beverley.”

“You, too, Thomas,” she said, and she wondered if she’d read that right but he nodded to her, still smiling thoughtfully, and left.

Beverley went back into the living room. Peter’s eyes were still closed, and his breathing still steady. She’d wondered a little bit. Peter was Peter, after all.

“I’m going to be in the bedroom doing some reading,” she said out loud, even though he couldn’t hear her. Peter slept on. Somehow he managed to look small and pale and vulnerable, curled up in that duvet, despite being none of those things. Beverley felt the expression on her face she’d seen on the Nightingale’s earlier. Wanting to protect someone; it wasn’t the sort of thing you could ever begrudge.

She didn’t think she begrudged him the rest of it, either.

“He says he’s glad he came, too,” she said aloud, before she left the room. “And you know what – so am I.”


End file.
